


Addicted To You

by mzyz



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pepper Potts Is a Good Bro, Rehabilitation, Superhusbands (Marvel), Tony Stark Needs a Hug, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 17:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12173505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mzyz/pseuds/mzyz
Summary: in which tony is an alcoholic and steve has had enough-X-He looks at all his broken pieces, his shattered world that he, himself, had broken. And god, he misses Steve.





	Addicted To You

**Author's Note:**

> kinda ooc??? just something i thought about while i was walking back from the grocery store

Steve Rogers knew he loves Tony Stark. It was something he was so sure of. He knew he loves Tony’s smile, not the fake one he uses in front of flashing lights and shuttering cameras. The real one, when someone says that they love him or he has a technology breakthrough and his lips curve into a soft, warm grin and the sides of his eyes crinkle. 

He loves the way his hair is a chestnut color in the morning sun that streamed through the cracks in their shades in the early morning light. He loves Tony’s snarky comments, as annoying as they may be. He _loves_ Tony Stark. 

But Steve hates a certain part of his lover. He hates the nights that Tony stumbles into the room, smelling heavily of alcohol and swaying on his legs. He hates the slurred “Steve…”s that escape his chapped lips and he hates the anger that sometimes comes with Tony. He hates listening to Tony throw his tools around the workshop in a fit of alcohol-induced rage, trembling with fears that the drinks only enhanced. 

He hates waking up to see Tony leaning over the bed, gagging and reeling and vomiting into the carpet. And he _hates_ the full days spent watching Tony hug the porcelain toilet bowl and stew in self-misery only to forget all the pain and drink himself sick again the next night. 

He’s so _tired_ of Tony running off after every argument, even one as little and insignificant about dishwashing (he’s told Tony a million times that you have to scrape the leftover food off the plate before putting it in the dishwasher and, _goddamnit Tony is it really that hard to remember?_ ), and making love to a wine bottle and inhaling vodka martinis like his life depended on it. 

And Steve _tries_. He does. He tries to make Tony greasy food with every hangover, he tries to be there to rub Tony’s back in the early hours of the morning. He tries his very best to ignore the stench of whiskey and gin that omits from his boyfriend’s lips and hold him as he sobs or screams. 

Steve has learned how to go to bed and stay vigilant at the same time. That’s what you must do when your partner is an alcoholic (Steve hates that word and all the assumptions that come with it. He’s so sure Tony will learn to change, that his personality isn't defined by a word, a disease, and all its connotations). 

* * *

 

Steve jolts awake by the sound of something, most likely a glass or a vase, crashing into tiles. Blearily, he glances over at the clock and sees the time. _3:41 in the morning_ , Steve thinks. And he despises the fact that he isn’t shocked anymore. That hearing Tony break things at 3:41 in the morning is no longer on the list of things that surprise Steve or are out of the ordinary. That thought, that hatred, is in the back of his mind when he jumps out of the bed and stumbles towards the direction where he heard Tony smashing something. 

Tony is a mess, his eyes are glassy and bloodshot. His brown hair that Steve loves to run his hands through in the morning is tousled and sticking out in weird places. Some of it is matted against Tony’s forehead, stuck there by sweat that glistens even in the darkness. 

Tony blinks slowly, clearly confused to where he is and what’s going on. 

“Steveeee,” he slurs, pointing at the smashed cup on the kitchen floor, “I broke it, Steve…”

“Where were you?!” Steve demands. Every time, without fail, Steve always asks what Tony had been up to. It’s foolish, he’s well aware of it. But if Tony is hooked on alcohol and the longing to drink his feelings away and feel nothing, then Steve is hooked on the idea that Tony will get better. He clings to the notion that if he demands to know what Tony was doing then his boyfriend will get the hint and stop longing for the sensation of warm lips on cold glass. 

“I was…out, ya’know….doing shit…” Tony hiccuped into the palm of his hand and then laughed, board line insanely, and he sways like a sailor on a boat. “‘m hungry, Steve… make me some food, please?”

That sentence, that one request. It was like a match to gasoline, it lit Steve up. Anger burned inside of him because _how DARE he? How dare he ask Steve for food when all Steve does is stay up and worry about him. All he does is rub Tony’s back and ask him if he wants crackers or aspirin or more water?_

“No,” he mutters, voice calm but cracking and sizzling with rage. Tony blinks. 

“Excuse me?” 

“No. If you want food, make it your damn self. I’m done with this, I’m _done with you_.” Steve shouts, Tony flinching back (this _does_ make Steve feel bad but not enough to douse the inferno within him). “I’ve done _nothing_ but help you. And I’m so sick of this Tony. Goodnight, I’m done.” 

Steve walks back upstairs and into the bedroom. He listens to Tony’s heavy, drunken footsteps until they echo down the hall and they’re gone. Until Tony’s gone. 

He tries to sleep but there’s uneasiness still in his gut, it pools in his stomach and travels towards his brain and his heart. His heart is thrumming, pounding and screaming. He doesn’t want to leave, he loves Tony. _He loves Tony._

Then, a realization hits him square in the face. He loves another Tony. He loves the Tony that he first met, the selfless, sassy Tony. The one that kisses him softly and calls him ‘Cap’ affectionately. He loves the Tony that is hidden beneath the demons that told him the only confidence he could get was from a bottle. And, he knows, there was only one way to get that Tony back. 

Wordlessly, he got out of bed once more and began to pack a bag. 

* * *

 

When Tony stumbles back into the tower, he expects Steve to be mad. He expects to see the blonde waiting by the couch, a book or magazine in hand. He's so used to seeing his boyfriend waiting in the living room for him to shuffle through the door, nervously thumbing through the pages but not actually reading them. 

He's going to see Steve spring up from the sofa and throw the book onto the coffee table and shout, “where the hell have you been?” disregarding the whole “language!” thing because he was so worried about Tony. 

He expects Steve _to be there_. That’s what made it so shocking when there was no Steve sitting there and where there should have been a Steve, there was a piece of paper. 

Slowly, Tony walks towards it, unsure. His heart was pounding in his throat and wild ideas ran around his mind because Steve was _always_ here. Always waiting when Tony left for the night. There was something so… _wrong_ about his absence that had horrible thoughts and accusations run rampant in Tony’s hungover mind. 

When Tony unfolds the note his first thought was: _oh god no._

 

_Dear Tony,_

_Last night was the last straw. I don’t consider myself one to run away that easily, I’d like to think I’m very stubborn (wether that is good or bad, I don’t know). But last night, I just broke. So that got me thinking, what if me being here is the reason you just aren’t getting better?_

_Tony, I love you. I love you so much but I hate this side of you. It’s so hard for me, for us and our relationship, to have to see you pour your emotions into a bottle and drink it away._

_I’ve tried to be there for you but then last night, after I finished getting angry, I realized that me being there for you might be why you aren’t getting better. I’ve stayed when I shouldn’t because I was so determined and so willing to believe you were going to get better on your own. But you aren’t and you won’t._

_That’s why I’m leaving. Because maybe my being gone will help you. Hopefully, when you’re reading this, you're realizing that you need help. Tony, I’m telling you, you need help._

_I’ll always love you, Tony Stark, but I will never love the you that comes from a glass of whiskey. So, when you’re ready to get help you can call me. I’ll always be here when you’re ready._

_I love you Tony. Please don’t think my leaving means I love you any less. I’m doing this_ for _you._

_Yours,_

_Steve Rogers._

 

Tony reads through the letter. Once. Twice. Three times. He's motionless for what seemed like hours. Then, slowly, he crumples the letter into a ball and throws it across the room. 

Disbelief runs through his veins and turns them ice cold. 

_No._

He runs up the stairs towards the bedroom and throws it open. 

_No._

Steve’s stuff isn’t there so he grabs the handle of the closet and his lungs are flaming, screaming for help because he can’t breathe as he opens it and all of Steve’s clothing is gone. 

_No. No. NO!_

Tony is gasping for air, clutching at his chest. His head is thrumming and it feels like someone struck an ax straight through his body and split him in two. 

The anger floods in, the utter betrayal. _How could he leave me? He never really loved me, he just left me!_ Hot, furious tears threaten to fall and sting the corner of Tony’s eyes and he’s drowning. His muddled thoughts are convincing him that he’s actually been tossed into a freezing ocean and he’s surrounded by water that’s leaking into his body and filling his lungs. It’s icy water and the coldness stabs at his insides and he’s not alone in his tower. 

For three weeks after that, Tony lives at the bar. Very dry vodka is his lifeline, his raft in the ocean he’s drowning in. Sometimes it’s sadness, melancholy that his lover just walked out of his life. Other times it’s burning, fiery anger and he pounds his fist against the damp wood of the bar table because _his lover just walked out of his life!_

He passes out sometimes but he always comes back to nurse his bottle of red wine and rant to his glass of gin. His vision is never clear, more often it’s a blurry mess. He can’t tell if it’s from his tears or the alcohol that runs through his blood. He suspects it’s both and that just makes him angrier because _damn Steve Rogers for leaving him and making him like this_. 

He blames Steve almost as much as he gets sick. His drunken thoughts are mostly of Steve’s baby blue eyes are where they are now and if Tony can slap them straight out of Steve’s face.

He’s barely in the tower, seeing the tower is like reliving the moment he saw the letter every time. It haunts Tony with memories of Steve, memories of their love. It’s a ghost, whispering into his ear, constantly reminding Tony that Steve abandoned him. 

* * *

 

Three weeks, he lives like that. They seem to go by fast but, in reality, they drag on. They were a compilation of getting sick and then drinking himself sick. It wasn’t anything new but this time there was no Steve to offer him crackers and aspirin and kisses above his sweaty brow. 

Tony stumbles into the bedroom, his mind was a jumbled mess and he feels like he was going to either fall over, vomit or both. He falls onto the bed, not realizing he’s on Steve’s side. 

When he does, he wants to move but he doesn’t. He rolls over and puts his head in Steve’s pillow. It’s faint but, when he inhales, he can smell the cologne and shampoo Steve used. He smells Steve and his kisses and his stupid smile and the way he loved Tony even when Tony was shattering at his feet. 

He sits up and fat tears start rolling out of his red eyes and staining at his cheekbones. He reaches towards the nightstand, where he had thrown the letter in his last intoxicated fit of rage. He reads it but this time, he isn't angry.

When he reads through Steve’s words, all he can feel is regret and guilt. So much painful regret and guilt. He drove Steve away, it was all him. 

When he reads those last words. _Yours, Steve_. He wonders if he truly was still Steve’s. He traces over the letters, shaking finger looping over the ’S.’ He looks around at the room, glass bottles were littered through the carpet and the stench of beer filled the air. 

He looks at all his broken pieces, his shattered world that he, himself, had broken. And _god,_ he misses Steve. All he wants is for the super solider to burst through the doors and grab him, pull him close and hold him as he shakes. He wants to tell Steve he's sorry and beg him to come back. 

 _I broke this_ , he thinks as more tears make their way to his eyes, _and it’s my job to fix this. I need to get Steve back and there’s only one day to do it._

* * *

 

“Hello?” Rhodey’s smooth baritone washes over Tony in waves of relief. It felt so good to hear his best friend’s voice. 

“Rhodey…hey. Can you come with me ‘an Pepper today?” Tony’s voice wavers. 

“Where?” Rhodey asks. 

“To look at rehab centers.”

* * *

 

“Mr. Stark,” the woman evaluating him said, “you show signs of heavy alcoholism and anxiety.” Her voice is sweet, patient and reminds him of someone who was talking to an injured animal. It's both soothing and disarming at the same time. Tony wasn’t sure what to think about her. He wasn't sure what to think of all of it. 

Pepper’s research helped a lot, she was ecstatic when Tony told her he was ready to seek help. Then, she was sympathetic when Tony told her why he was seeking help and showed her the letter. But he had a sneaking suspicion that she empathizes and sympathizes with Steve more. She probably did but Tony’s mind wasn't as sharp ever since he turned to alcohol as his life support. 

Before Tony could speak, Pepper cut in, “what would you suggest?” 

“28 days -a month- in the rehab center. He’d be an inpatient so he won’t be able to go outside but after the month is up, I suggest a couple more months of therapy and visits with an addiction specialist."

Tony’s mouth felt dry and he craves a vodka martini or a gin and tonic right about now. Then, he feels worse when he realizes that that was the only thing he craved at the moment. 

“Tony?” Pepper asks, pulling Tony back down to Earth.

“Huh?” 

“I asked if that sounded good to you.”

“Good? Not at all. Doable? Necessary? I guess so.” Pepper smiles at him, a steady hand clamped on his shoulder. 

“I guess he’ll do it then.” 

The woman that Tony was still unsure about smiles and shakes both of their hands. The rest of the day, Tony was drowned in paperwork and transactions and before he knew it, he's walking into the center with only a luggage in one hand. 

* * *

 

The days either went by really slow or really fast, Tony found, there was no in between. It took some time to get used to his entire day being planned and having no say in what he ate or did. But there's something strange about being surrounded by people who understand. People who struggle through headaches and insomnia and deprivation the same as he does. It was so sudden to go from feeling so detached from everyone else in the world to be bombarded with people who cry over the same things as he does. Who miss people so wildly, who suffer through the side effects of the detox the same as he does but solider on because there are people who were worth more than liquid in a cup. 

Tony misses his three-piece Tom Ford’s but living in cotton t-shirts and workout clothes wasn't as traumatizing as he thought it would be. He talks to people, though it took some time to size up to them, and he feels like _a human_ again. Not an alien that grew another head and the only medication was more drinks. 

He often gets letters from Pepper and Rhodey. Occasionally he got some from Bruce and once, to his own astonishment, he got one from Natasha (though there was no return address). It was mainly a threat that he had to get better or else she’d "kick his ass to Spain" but he reads the concern from the redhead in between the lines and it feels nice to hear from her. 

Once he gets into the groove of things, it goes smoothly and the migraines thin out, the nausea that rages in his stomach calmed down and the twitching in his fingers when _all he wanted was a damn tequila shot_ slow down. 

The thoughts of Steve came more and he grows addicted to daydreams of running to Steve and saying: _“I’m back. I’m healed, Capsicle. I’m okay now.”_

His eyes, the blue crystals in his pupils, become Tony’s sole motivation. The reason he wakes up and gets out of bed to mealtime, the reason that he cooperates in the stupid, but also helpful (though he’d be damned if he admits it) group conversations and activities. Every breath he takes in the sterile, hospital-smelling center is for Steve. Is for _them_. 

28 days were up before Tony can blink (but at the same time, the 28 days felt like it was an eternity). He was twitching again when he woke up, but not out of the desperate _need_ for alcohol but because he was so excited _to finally get out here_. He feels like the old Tony again, he could _feel_ his mind returning to him. He was in control again finally and it never felt better. He's ready to leave and say hi to Jarvis when the words weren’t a slur and make _something_ in his workshop. He wants to take a long fly in his suit and see Pepper’s freckles up close and Rhodey’s smirk and Steve goddamn beautiful blue eyes. 

“Thank you,” he tells the doctors. He says goodbye to his roommate and the people he knows that are still on the long, twisting path to get better. He knows he's still on it, months of therapy are still waiting in front of him but he's taking long strides down that road. 

* * *

 

Walking into the lobby, Tony sees him. _Him._ His ‘him.’ He's sitting in one of the chairs, magazine open in his lap but he isn't even flipping the pages this time. He's just staring out the window, Tony knows that look. He's thinking.

“Steve,” he exhales; voice barely a whisper. Then, louder, “Steve…Steve?”

Steve looks up and his face brightens when he sees Tony. In two seconds, Steve has Tony in his arms, hugging him and lifting him off the ground slightly. Tony laughs, putting a shaking hand on Steve’s cheek. 

“How’d you know I was at this place?” Tony asks when Steve put him back down. Steve laughs too, breathy and relieved. He presses his forehead to Tony’s and there were glistening tears in his eyes that didn’t fall but dangled on the edge. 

“Pepper told me. She said you were getting out today. Tony, baby, I’m so proud of you.”

“Well,” Tony says, softly, “I couldn’t have you wandering off and banging someone else, could I?” 

Steve chuckles, once more. Then, he wraps his arms around Tony’s waist and pulls Tony closer to him. He leans down and catches Tony’s lips with his own. The kiss was long and deep and warm with all the longing and missing and suffering they both had done apart, Tony more so than Steve. 

 _It was worth it_ , Tony thinks as Steve kisses him. 

“I’m sorry I left you,” Steve whispers as they break apart for air, “I thought it was what was best for us bu—“

“No,” Tony said, putting a hand over Steve’s moving lips, “thank you for leaving me. As shitty as it was, it helped me and I’d like to think I came out better.”

“I love you,” Steve murmurs, running his fingers through Tony’s mousy hair. 

“I love you too, Cap.” 

“I’m proud of you.”

“You said that already.”

“I know. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Steve. Can we go get a burger? I’m starving.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed~


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